


A Question of Ownership

by Chioces



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Dominant/Top Dean, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chioces/pseuds/Chioces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can't have Dean, so theoretically he can have anyone else he wants. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [(授权翻译） a question of ownership/所有权 by choices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769176) by [sunshinedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinedark/pseuds/sunshinedark)



> This little plot bunny came out of nowhere while sitting on a plane ten minutes before we started landing. so of course, being forced to turn off my computer mid fic i spent all the time in the airport and car ride writing.
> 
> Also the wonderful Sunshinedark ( http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinedark/pseuds/sunshinedark ) (because I spent the las hour trying to imbed the damned link, failed and gave up) has translated my story into CHINESE!!!!! OMG!!!! can you believe it?!?! I can't))) so go check it out! http://archiveofourown.org/works/1769176  
> If you don't speak Chinese go check it out anyway cus it looks so cooool!!!!

A scattershot collection of clothing litters the floor and double bed of the motel. Sam is standing at the doorway to the bathroom, arms crossed. Looking silently at the mess. Dean is leaning against the wall by the open window, blowing smoke into the cold night air. Sam wants to say something. Anything. But then what good would that be? Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. Sam tried. Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. So then, Sam tried, pleading, again. But Dean, being Dean still doesn’t want to talk about it. Dean never wants to talk about it. Sam considers packing up the clothes. His only suite is getting rumpled, on the floor, and he’s going to need it before the job is over. Instead he just steps over it, walking to the door. Sam stops, hand gripping the handle. He waits for Dean to ask him where he’s going, to tell him to stay away from the Impala. Anything.

Dean keeps smoking.

Sam walks out the door.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows that he needs alcohol. Now. In what feels like moments, but was more likely ten minutes Sam is standing on the high street. There are a few pubs scattered around the place. One bar that looks like it’s trying to be high end. And a club with a small cluster of girls, all giggling in high heels and skirts that are just about too short.

Sam doesn’t want to think and the best place to not think, he knows from his years in Stanford, is a nightclub. Music so loud that it drowns everything out. Also, there’s no way in hell that Dean would be caught dead in one of those places. So he’ll be safe there. Safe from his thoughts, safe from Dean unexpectedly appearing in search of alcohol.

Sam walks in, the bouncer that has been ID-ing everyone in the queue doesn’t try to stop him. Lights are flashing and the harsh beet of electro house is blasting at his senses with the force of a machine gun.

He glances around the room. Two bars. Girls are looking at him, smiling. Maybe later. He thinks as he weaves his way, in and out of dancing people to the further bar. Women are not what his palate craves tonight. A boy with short-cropped hair and a leather jacket is standing at the bar.

Dean.

But it’s not. Just some punk kid, trying to be older and cooler than he really is.

“Double whiskey strait” he shouts to the bartender, wincing. Maybe the club was not such a good idea after all. But the entrance fee has already been paid and he can’t help but fell that leaving now would just be a waist of whoever’s stolen credit card he’s using at the moment’s money.

He downs the whiskey, but the taste reminds him of… never mind what it reminds him of.

“Shot of vodka.” The barman arches an eyebrow but says nothing as he pours. Sam leers at him, the way he’s seen Dean leer at pretty girls. The barman’s not hard on the eye. Tall, as tall as Sam, which is a rarity, and wider. His hair is jet black, short, jelled into spikes. Eyes blue, the blue light inside the glass bar table making them seem electric. The barman smiles back, appreciatively.

The shot goes down well. The barman’s name is Ben. He used to be a cage fighter. Sam thinks that’s sexy. Ben laughs. Sam has another shot. The music’s not so bad now. His ears have become used to it. He’s even tapping out the rhythm with his fingers on the bar.

Another shot. Sam’s hips are swaying. He thinks back to all the times he went out to nightclubs with Jess. She used to love it. The dancing she would tell him it’s all about the dancing. So he had learned to dance. And then he had learned to enjoy it. He wonders why he hasn’t been out dancing before this.

Dean.

Dean.

Sam is not thinking about Dean.

* * *

Dean walks into the club. Easy pussy. Lots of booze. No Sam.

Most importantly no Sam.

Because Sam is Sam and he will be sitting in some dark and dingy bar, thinking. No doubt still cradling his first beer. Because Sam does not drink when he’s upset. He thinks it will lead to alcoholism. Fucking geek.

The music’s too loud, but that’s ok. He scans the room. Going for the closest bar. Beer. Beer is good. He turns his back to the bar leaning on it. The girls are great, short skirts riding up as they move their hips to the music. He inspects each one, picking. Not that he’s very picky, he doesn’t care which one takes him home tonight, as long as her skirt is short, heals are high, and she’s hot. Face doesn’t matter only when he’s too drunk to see straight. He’s not that drunk tonight.

Sam.

Correction. He’s not that drunk tonight. Yet.

Dean glances over to the second bar and his breath stops. Like a huge fucking fist just grabbed him by the throat and is refusing to let go. There’s Sam… his…Sammy leaning on the bar, flirting with the barman. He can’t hear them, but he knows Sam, knows how he moves, knows Sam’s movements better then his own. Sam is drunk. And Sam is flirting.

* * *

Sam thinks he might dance. Sam wants to dance. In fact, Sam really wants to dance. Ben pours Sam another shot of Vodka. Grey Goose now. Free. Flirting with barmen pays off, some part of Sam’s alcohol clouded mind thinks.

“I get off in ten minutes.” Ben breathes into Sam’s ear.

“I thought barmen had to work till late.”

“Yeah, but I started early tonight.”

Sam smiles, he feels flustered, and naughty, and god damn it! If his brother can be a slut, so fucking can he.

Sam moves carefully away from the bar, still smiling at Ben, turns around and makes his way to the dance floor.

When he glances at the bar Ben is watching him. Licking his lips. When he looks back again a few minutes later Ben’s gone. Sam shrugs and keeps dancing. The music is hypnotic. God. He’s missed dancing. He closes his eyes.

Suddenly hands are on his hips and for a wild moment Sam thinks it’s Jess, but no. These hands are too large.

“You, dancing like this, makes me want to give you everything I have.”

Sam plays with the idea of saying a line out of a poem he once read: who says I want your everything tonight? And even opens his mouth to say it, but then it’s too late because he’s been spun around and Ben is kissing him. Sam wants to pull away. Too soon. Too quick. I don’t even know you! But he doesn’t. Fuck it. He thinks. And Sam’s kissing back just as passionately.


	2. Chapter 2

Sammy pushes away from the bar. Starts dancing. And god. Dean groans. The way his body is moving. It shouldn’t be allowed. Turn off the fucking music! Dean wants to shout. He wants to grab Sammy and remind him that he’s in public. That he can’t dance like that with all these people watching him. His eyes snap to the barman Sam’s been flirting with. The fucking pervert can’t seem to tear his eyes of his brother. Licking his lips, like he wants a taste, a bite. But he’s behind the bar, which in Dean’s mind renders him harmless.

Dean goes back to watching Sam. Unable to go to him, but just as incapable of denying himself this one, secret, pleasure.

He breaths in deeply, and imagines he can smell Sam all the way from here, but it’s probably just his shirt that Sam had worn for two days, having run out of clean ones of his own.

He wonders briefly why he chose this one. But the answer has minefields hidden in its folds. So he banishes the question with a swig of his beer.

When he lowers the bottle Dean chokes. The stupid fucking barman has his hands on Sammy. On his Sammy! In a moment of blinding rage Dean forgets everything. He forgets the girls, and why he’s here. He forgets that he’s trying to get away from Sam. As fucking far away as he possibly can. He forgets about their argument and all the shouting. He forgets every gut wrenching feeling of pain that argument had made bloom like fucking bruises in him. And all that’s left is Sammy, his Sammy, wrapped in some slime ball’s arms.

For a moment it seems like Sam’s gonna push the greasy piece of garbage away.

And then…

Oh god. Oh GOD! They’re kissing. They’re kissing and damn it, Dean is seeing red.

That’s his Sam. Those are his lips. Lips that were on his, only a few hours ago.

And Dean doesn’t care that when they we offered to him Dean shoved them away. Dean doesn’t care that he thought it was wrong. Dean doesn’t care that in the end it was Dean himself who had said no. Dean doesn’t care that he hated the way Sam made his stomach twist. Because Sam kissing someone else makes his stomach twist even harder, in a decidedly unpleasant way, in a way that makes Dean feel like if his fist wasn’t currently connecting with Sleazy’s jaw he would have vomited.

But his fist hits home and the man stumbles back, away.

Away from Sam.

His Sam damn it. And the expression on Sam’s face would have been comical if Dean hadn’t been so far away from laughing. He wants to punch the guy again.

Punch him till he’s bleeding on the floor. He wants to carve his eyes out with the bluntest knife he has, just so that the motherfucker will feel it more. He wants to chop of his fucking hands and… and… and Dean’s dragging Sam away and out of the club because if he stays another minute he’s sure that what he wants to be doing is what he will be doing. And that would end badly for everyone involved.

Dean smokes as they walk to the motel room. One after another. They’re giving him a headache now, but he can’t seem to stop. Sam is shouting something at him. Drunk. He stumbles a few times but keeps following. If there is one thing that Dean can count on it’s that Sammy will always follow, no matter how pissed off he is. Sammy will always follow.

He couldn’t have this. Dean couldn’t have this even if wanting it was ripping a hole in his stomach. He remembered this one time when Dean was twelve and dad had left them alone. He had said he was going for three days max and had left the appropriate amount of money. Except he had stayed gone for a week and Dean had not eaten for three days to make sure that Sammy didn’t go hungry. By the end of it he thought he could kill just to get his hands on some food. Well, that hunger was nothing compared to this. A butterfly is to an erupting volcano what that was to now.

But then they’re in the motel room and Sam has him pressed up against the wall, shouting at him. And Dean doesn’t want to listen any more then he wants to smell the alcohol on his baby brother’s breath.

But finally, finally Dean listens.

Tomorrow morning he’ll probably wish he hadn’t.

“You fucking bastard! So this is how it works now! I can’t have you, but I can’t have anyone else either? What, are you going to knock out every guy that comes near me? Cus you’re gonna have to knock out a lot of guys Dean, I plan on there being a lot of guys.”

Suddenly Dean forgets all about the alcohol on Sam’s breath because all he can see is that fucking barman with his hands all over Sam. His Sam.

With a snarl Dean attacks his brother grabbing a fistful of his hair, his other hand latching onto Sam’s hip, smashing his body into his own. Biting, desperate. Damn it. So fucking desperate.

He’s kissing Sam.

Kissing Sam like there’s no yesterday, no tomorrow. Like Sam is his yesterday. Like Sam is his tomorrow and every single nanosecond in between. He’s kissing Sam like he’ll die without it. Like the kiss itself is killing him. He’s kissing the life out of him, he’s kissing his own life into him. Is so completely wrong, and so completely perfect.

And Dean forgets to care about the fact that he’ll regret this with the very depths of his soul tomorrow. Because Sammy is his. And he’s gonna fucking make sure that he remembers it. Remembers it with every inch of his damn body. Dean is going to mark him so fully and deeply that every time someone else touches him all he’s going to see is Dean, all he is going to feel is Dean and in his head all there will ever be is Dean. Dean. Dean. Just like his every waking moment is filled with Sam.

And then their clothes are gone, skin to burning feverish skin, with them the blanket and the clothes that had been lying on top of them from their earlier fight. And Sammy is aching his back off the bed towards Dean’s body. And Dean can’t breath because Sam is so fucking beautiful.

“Yes…” his brother hisses, “yes… Dean…Dean. Dean!” and Dean’s lips are on his nipple sucking, nipping, biting, and Sam just moans. Pressing his cock against Dean’s chest. “Please Dean.” Dean ignores him, moving slowly to the other nipple.

“Shhh, baby boy, I’ve got you. I know what you want.” When he takes Sam into his fist, he nearly screams. Dean can’t hold back a smirk.

“Yeah, that’s it baby. Only I can make you scream like this. Only for me.” And Sam is shaking, shuddering, throwing his head back and forth against the pillow.

“Yours, Dean. Only yours. Please. I want, I need…” But Dean is stroking him slowly. Firmly, but too damn slowly.

“What do you want Sammy, tell me.” Sam whines. Incapable of answering. Too lost in the feel of Dean’s hand, Dean’s hand, on his cock. Stroking like he’s wiping down one of the shotguns. Carefully, thoroughly, so damn fucking slowly.

“I…” and Sam is arching his back again, panting. Needing more. “I want you.”

“You’ve got me.” This is whispered into Sam’s ear because Dean is kissing Sammy’s neck, trying desperately to control his own want. His own need.

“No, damn you! Inside!” Dean’s fist tightens. Sam groans. “I need you inside me, Dean, please. Please Dean. I need. Please. Oh god. Please, fuck me.” Something in Dean snaps and he picks a bottle of lotion off the bedside table. Opening it with his teeth.

And then his fingers are inside. So fucking deep inside. And Sammy is so tight around them. Arching his back and impaling himself on them, all the while begging for more, harder, faster, deeper. More! And Dean is giving him more. Dean is giving him everything.

Sam cries out. Dean stops.

“Are you ok Sammy? Am I-”

“Damn it Dean! Don’t you stop! Don’t you fucking dare stop.” And finally Dean is buried so deeply inside of Sam that it feels like his soul is about to sink into him. But Sammy is moaning. Arching his back. Begging for more. Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice.

And every time he slides his cock into Sam, he is claiming ownership over his brother’s body.

“Mine.” Snarls Dean, biting Sam’s shoulder. Marking him. Again and again, until Sam’s shoulders are sprinkled with bruises. “Mine.” Kissing him, claiming his moth like he’s claiming the rest of his body.

“Yours.” Sam gasps into Dean’s mouth. And Dean can’t take it any more. It’s too much. Sammy in his mouth, Sammy on his skin, Sammy on his cock. And then Sammy comes, shuddering, muscles clenching and Sammy’s sent is filling his nostrils with his intoxicating smell.

“Fuck. Sammy, baby. Mine. God damn you, mine. No one else. Sammy. Mine.” And Dean’s hot thick cum is filling Sammy. Marking Sammy all over again.

When they catch their breaths Dean is acutely aware of every point of contact between his body and his brother’s.

He starts thinking. Or at least he starts thinking that he should start thinking. Sammy beats him to it.

“Don’t you dare.” He whispers into Deans hair.

“Don’t I dare what?” playing dumb might just be the answer. Sammy will say something vague along the lines of: you know. He’ll nod, maybe even whisper a promise.

He should have known that he wasn’t getting out of it so easily.

“Don’t you dare give this to me and then take it away. If you even try I’ll kill you. I swear to god. With my very hands.” And Dean’s eyes are wide, he’s gripping Sammy tightly, because he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re mine now, Dean. If you think that there’s even a chance of me letting you go then you’re out of your mind. You’re not going anywhere.” Dean wants to cry then because Sammy is keeping him. Sammy is choosing him.

Because if Dean Can’t go anywhere then neither can Sam.

Sam is choosing him over Stanford, over white picket fence, over normal. Who knows how long it will last? And although a part of Dean screams it doesn’t matter how long it will last, as long as he gets this for as long as he possibly can, it doesn’t matter. He can’t help but see, in his minds eye, how Sammy is leaving. How Sammy does not turn back. How all that’s left is Dean and his stupid, useless love for his brother, who doesn’t even care. But even that image is not enough. Because Dean hates saying no to himself, even when he knows that he’ll regret it later. Like with the smoking, he’s going to take this. And like with the inevitable cancer, he’s going to let this kill him too, when the time comes.

“Do you hear me? You’re not going anywhere. We’re not talking about it. This is me not trying to discuss anything with you. I am telling you plain and simple. You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere.”

“No. No, Sammy. I’ll always be with you.” Sammy smiles, looses some of the last of the tension in his body, melting into Dean’s side, and consequently into sleep. “Promise.” He doesn’t say it out loud, but as his eyes close he thinks but what will happen to me when you no longer are with me…


End file.
